


upon the highest bough

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bran Stark is basically Tiny Tim, Bran and Rickon are Robb's sons, Canon Disabled Character, Catelyn Tully Stark Doesn't Hate Jon Snow, Christmas Fluff, Domeric Bolton is Sansa's son, Established Gendarya, Established Ghostymeria, Established Robbaery, F/M, Gen, Gendry Waters is a Baratheon, Jealousy, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow is a Westerosi Charles Dickens, Modern Westeros, Pining, R Plus L Equals J, Ramsay Bolton is a Westerosi shithead as usual, Robb Stark is a Westerosi Robert Owen, Sansa Stark is Ramsay's Widow, Shameless Christmas fun!, Theon Greyjoy is a Gift, Theon Greyjoy is a Westerosi Lord Byron, Unreliable Narrator, Victorian Attitudes, Yuletide in Westeros, no love triangles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21524446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: 🎄Robb Stark lives in a lively household, what with his lovely wife and their three rambunctious children, his melancholy sister Sansa (in mourning but kept merry by her sweet son), eccentric cousin Jon (who romps about in the attic talking to himself, while he tries to write a bestselling novel) and his best friend Theon (who has a home of his own, Gods be Blessed!! who doesn't evencelebrateYuletide but is forced to hang decorations anyway). Not forgetting frequent visitors, loud sister Arya and her husband Gendry, excited about their second baby, and the irascible Lady Olenna, who refuses to quit drinking all of Robb's best brandy.🎄(...full summary inside!)
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Ghost/Nymeria (ASoIaF), Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark (past), Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	upon the highest bough

**Author's Note:**

> Robb Stark lives in a lively household, what with his lovely wife and their three rambunctious children, his melancholy sister Sansa (in mourning but kept merry by her sweet son), eccentric cousin Jon (who romps about in the attic talking to himself, while he tries to write a bestselling novel) and his best friend Theon (who has a home of his own, Gods be Blessed!! who doesn't even _celebrate_ Yuletide but is forced to hang decorations anyway). Not forgetting frequent visitors, loud sister Arya and her husband Gendry, excited about their second baby, and the irascible Lady Olenna, who refuses to quit drinking all of Robb's best brandy. 
> 
> Not to mention Ghost and Nymeria's new puppies, underfoot and frequently in danger of breaking everything Robb owns. Everything would still be manageable, if his parents hadn't turned up unexpectedly, wanting a room too, and trying their best to persuade Sansa to marry Jon for the Targaryen fortune. Even though Jon and Sansa see one another as siblings, and Sansa is still in mourning! 
> 
> Could Sansa love Jon? Or does her heart belong to another? With new business ventures for Robb's factories and mills on the horizon, Robb really doesn't have much spare time to help... Will Yuletide be ruined by his badly behaved relatives and in-laws? Or will the Yuletide spirit prevail?

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“Darlings, I’m back!” Sansa hailed the household, full of bright Yuletide cheer. 

Instead of the usual rabble of over-eager children mobbing and swarming her like bees to fresh flowers, demanding to know if she had bought penny chestnuts or ribbons or oranges, if she had seen the daily reindeer parade or the jugglers from Lys, there was only the monotonous click of the grandfather clock, as the pendulum slowly drifted back and forth, to greet her. Sansa placed her bags of new fabric - for she had been to the drapers and avoided the bustle of the promenade and had in fact missed the reindeer in order to circumvent the crowds – onto the table and took off her gloves, bemused. 

Since moving into her brother’s household a year and a half ago, she could not recall a more serene return to the house. Jeyne, one of the three household servants and the only true ladies’ maid, greeted her warmly as she appeared from the back stairs, and took Sansa’s coat and hat. Sansa had grown accustomed to the bustle and noise, it seemed, as she felt suddenly bereft at this quiet and composed entrance into the house. Then a curious shriek - like a raven’s call – came from a room above and she understood immediately. Sansa scurried up the stairs, gleeful, and carefully opened the door to the playroom. There within, she saw the gaggle of merry children. Her son Domeric was amongst her brother’s children; Bran, little Olenna, and Rickon, and to her surprise, Arya’s daughter Lyarra. They were all crowded around a puppet stand, looks of awe and joy on their faces. The marionettes; a raven, a bee and a reindeer, were being masterfully commanded by her cousin Jon, with assistance from the butler, Podrick. 

Jon, of course, was providing the noises skillfully; squawks of indignation from the raven, high-pitched grumbling from the bee, and calm, sensible advice from the reindeer. The story was a popular Yuletide one. The three animal friends who ventured into a forest, and while the raven and bee were in turn too cold and too hungry, only the reindeer was dressed correctly for the occasion, and knew how to find food. The story concluded with the raven and bee being gifted a sleigh to share, which the kind reindeer pulled through the forest. Sansa knew the familiar fable was almost at an end, and flashed Jon an grateful smile when he caught sight of her.

Domeric must have sensed her presence also, as he turned to look where Jon was directing his smile, and called out; “Mother!” in a joyful exclaim, though Sansa had been gone less than three hours. Domeric squirmed out from between his cousins to run into Sansa’s waiting arms, and she hugged him close to her breast. They had been living in Robb’s house since her husband had died, although Sansa supposedly had the greater fortune because she had married well.

In point of fact, her lawyers had bashfully explained to her, though Ramsay had been incredibly wealthy and had left her an allowance, he had left her with some rather large debts. Domeric’s inheritance was untouched; naturally, Ramsay had left their son almost everything; the manor and its surrounding estate, the tenant farms and the mill, plus all the other small businesses he owned a slice of. Sansa had been left only a decent allowance, and the jewels and other fripperies. Although they could have chosen to continue living in the manor, Sansa had decided to have it shut up, dismissed most of the servants or found them positions elsewhere, and had moved into Robb’s fashionable townhouse in the cosmopolitan Winter City. 

Margaery, her brother’s lovely wife, was thrilled to have another noble lady in the house, who she could shop, sew, sing and pass idle conversation with. She too, had been wed for her wealth, though Sansa knew that Robb and Margaery were very well suited and happy together. But it was no secret that the Starks, an ancient and noble lineage, had fallen on hard times, mainly due to her ambitious grandfather’s wanton spending, and her dear father’s lack of political skill. A hundred years ago, Margaery’s family were in trade, and would have been far too low a match. But her father had been knighted, and Margaery raised as a true lady. There was no shame in marrying well, Mother had always said, which is why Sansa had married a very, very rich legitimized bastard that she did not and likely never could have loved, instead of a kindly trueborn lord with a good name and, say, a mountain of gambling debts. 

Ramsay had died with some debts, yes, but they would be paid off within two years of his death, which was only six months away. And then Sansa could consider reintroducing herself into society. Domeric was ten years old, and already attended boarding school, but only full board in the spring and autumn months. Sansa insisted he attend the day school during summer and winter, excepting the holidays of course. She was not one of these unnatural mothers who wanted to be parted from her child. 

Ramsay had pursed his lips and called her concerns ‘hysterical’, to which Sansa responded that he was a miser, as they were entirely wealthy enough to afford year-round tutoring from a governess (but Sansa wanted her child to interact with other children). As usual, Ramsay had given her a solid slap for the insult, but Sansa had gotten her way in the end, so it was worth it.

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Robb concluded his detailed look over the ledger of his accounts, and let out a satisfied sigh. As always, the sums and totals were accurate, all the coppers accounted for, but he checked them monthly, nethertheless. Robb trusted the overseer, Rodrik Cassel, to do his job well, but the man was not an accountant by trade, and Robb was too shrewd to risk his family’s livelihood over an easily corrected mistake. Better to nip any issues in the bud, as Jon always said. 

Robb and his cousin Jon had grown up as brothers, because poor Jon had been orphaned as a child. Robb’s aunt Lyanna had died giving birth to Jon, and his uncle-by-marriage, the noble Lord Rhaegar Targaryen, Duke of Dragonstone, had died in a duel when Jon was only six name-days. Thus, Jon had been taken in by Robb’s kind father and ambitious mother, to be raised alongside Robb, and his sisters, Sansa and Arya. Since Robb had no brothers, and Jon had no siblings at all, they had become firm friends. This was encouraged by his mother especially, for Lyanna Stark had married far above her station. 

Although the head of House Stark was a lord, he commanded only the title of a lowly Viscount, whereas Rhaegar Targaryen had been a cousin to the royal family themselves. His choice to spurn a more noble match for Lyanna Stark had caused a huge scandal, resulting in the Starks losing what scant influence at court they had. Eddard Stark was not a skilled diplomat, and had instead chosen to retreat entirely, raising his children to have little interest in court; to instead mingle with wealthy landowners and lower members of the nobility. It had served them well, and Robb, Sansa and Arya had all made good matches. Though their mother had been saddened and sore that she could not convince either of her daughters to win over Jon, who was a distant cousin to the king, and the Duke of Dragonstone. 

But much like his cousins, Jon had little interest in court, or the ancestral home that his father had granted him. He expressed a wish to move there, once he had a wife and children of his own, but for the time being Jon seemed content to live in the uppermost rooms of Robb’s own townhouse, and write. Jon was a somewhat celebrated novelist, though his last two books had not been popular. Still, his cousin had five successful works to his name, and enjoyed a good reception wherever he went as a result. Unfortunately, Jon was anything but a social butterfly, so he spent most of his days shut up in his rooms talking to his direwolf, Ghost, and attempting to write. When Robb and their friend Theon, and Jon’s friend and literary agent Sam, could persuade Jon to get fresh air and daylight, they ventured into the town for a jolly good night of carousing, drinking and gambling. It was a probably a good thing Jon wasn’t a fan of spending much time socialising. Because if he was, Robb would probably find himself sleeping in his study. Margaery was never overly pleased when then two of them stumbled home, hooting and hollering, and giggling over nothing as they tripped over the stairs, potted plants and each other, in their efforts to unlock the front door.

Still, Jon was a wonder with the children, who Robb spent less and less time with as they years went by, and his business ventures expended. Robb was his father’s heir, and though he had no interest in courtly intrigue or politics, Robb was interested in overseas export. His mills produced cotton, linen and other blends of fabric, and he owned factories, a saw mill and even a small mine. Robb was interested in shipping his trade from White Harbour to Essos, where his products were less usual, but the taxes and tariffs meant he needed capital first, to guarantee his shareholder's investments. 

Though it was uncharitable, and he would never tell his sister so, Robb was quite relieved when her husband, Ramsay Bolton, had died. Ramsay had a large stake in Robb’s factories, and with his death, Robb had been able to persuade Domeric’s guardian and lawyers to agree to the new terms more easily than he would have convinced Ramsay. 

Ramsay Bolton had always been a contrary, disagreeable sort of man, rude and perhaps even cruel. He had never taken an ounce of interest in the workers of his own estate or mill. Whereas Robb had introduced a communal dining hall for his workers to eat a stout dinner for a nominal fee, and even a new contraption to his mill, which reduced the amount of cotton dust floating in the air. The machine was said to improve the lungs of cotton mill workers, who inhaled flecks of cotton, which often resulted in Brown Lung, a breathing ailment that could be fatal. Though it made sound business and philanthropic sense to reduce the amount of death – dead workers had to be replaced with green recruits, after all – Ramsay refused to spend the money on any such innovations, citing the cost. Despite the fact that Ramsay himself lived in luxury and ate venison every week, and could easily afford such a machine. 

Robb had never understood what his sister saw in the man. She had simpered on Ramsay’s every word, and blushed like a maiden whenever Ramsay kissed her hand. But she was still Robb’s sweet sister, and Robb could hardly fault her for not understanding matters of business. Sansa was a lady, and she had never had an interest in men’s pursuits.

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Theon lounged on a seat specifically designed for the purpose, bound and determined not to move until the Drowned God saw fit to drag him to his watery death.

“I will not do it,” Theon moaned like the most piteous workhouse wretch, beaten into submission and left only with words of lament.

“You will do it, or I shall take you by the ear and throw you out of this house, into the street to land upon your rear, Theon Greyjoy,” Margaery replied, her hands upon her hips and she stood over his lazy, prone form, “Like a common brawler thrown from a tavern.”

“And what would you know of taverns, sweet sister?”

“Only what I read in dear Jon’s books,” she sniffed, indignantly.

Margaery Stark was no relation of his own, of course. House Greyjoy haled from the Iron Islands, who only married within their own people and spurned ties with anyone without Ironborn blood. Theon, the youngest son of his lord father, was afforded a great amount of leeway to live upon the greenlands. But his father maintained a strict policy. Theon would not inherit a single copper from his miserable, grumpy, sour drunkard of a sire if he wed a girl without Ironborn heritage. 

Theon, who had absolutely no interest in returning to the grim, grey rocks of his birth to find a brash, ugly wife, had thus chosen to remain a bachelor, and took up lodgings in Winter City. After his schooling had concluded, Theon had refused to return home, not that he was much impressed upon to even do so. Theon being the youngest of Balon’s four children, his uncle, Rodrick the Reader, had persuaded Balon to send Theon to the mainland to boarding school as a boy. 

Theon wouldn’t inherit the ancestral pile, the hideous castle of his forbears, and he wasn’t much of a sailor either. Thus, Balon concluded he was practically useless, and allowed it. Instead of becoming a ship’s captain, Theon had gone to study law, to make use of himself. The Reader’s plans had been stymied a little by Theon’s utter lack of interest in returning to Pyke or Harlaw after passing the bar, to actually work in his profession. Instead, Theon had found a junior position in Winter City, and used his decent wage to drink, gamble and charm women of ill repute, which suited him well enough. He stumbled back to his lodgings most nights, but at least four times a week he supped at Robb’s lovely townhouse, to get a decent meal that wasn’t some suspicious form of watery stew, which his landlady touted.

Robb was his brother in all but blood, and Jon similarly but not quite so affectionately termed, also. Theon had met them when they were boys in school, and the three had not been separated since. Thus, Theon considered Margaery his sister-by-law, and though he admired many of her qualities, her stubborn determination was not one of them. With a heavy, beleaguered sigh, Theon rolled off the chaise lounge, and straightened out his rumpled, mint-green and teal waist-coat.

“What would you have me do?” questioned Theon, as dramatically as though he were an actor upon the stage preparing for a tragic death scene.

Margaery directed his attention to the fresh boughs of pine, woven into garlands and festooned with holly and merry red bows, which were decorated with dried orange slices trimmed in gold leaf. Theon winced at the sight of the sharp prickles of the holly, and lamented the sure fate of his fingertips.

“I cannot hang such false iconography,” Theon blustered, in his best impression of his employer, a brilliant but unloveable barrister, “The Drowned God might poison my water as punishment for the sin of false worship.”

Margaery’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Theon scurried over to the table, to assist Gendry, Arya’s burly husband, and Jeyne, the little maid, to begin lifting the heavy, long garlands into hall. They were to be wound about the staircase, to provide the house with the smell of pine, and clove-spiced orange. Nan, the aged housekeeper, and Margaery remained, busy threading spare orange slices together to festoon upon the tree, when the time came. 

Privately, Theon thought the idea of bringing a whole tree inside, to be decorated with candles, ribbons and sweet-scented dried foodstuffs, was a ridiculous notion of the new young king, but he bit his tongue. Instead of Yuletide, the Ironborn celebrated Freshflood, to welcome in the new year, which was a dour ceremony held outside in the dark, involving a lot of seaweed and candles, and it made Theon shiver to think on it. He hadn’t really celebrated Freshflood since he was a boy, and he didn’t have very fond memories of it besides. Perhaps, the new king had the right of it after all. Pine trees certainly smelled a lot more pleasant than seaweed, at any rate. But after houses no doubt burnt down, due to the over-indulgence of candles, Theon doubted the fashion would take off here in the North, like it had in the Reach.

As they passed the playroom on their way to the staircase, Theon noticed the door was now a-jar, allowing the raucous laughter of the children to spill out. He spied Sansa among the throng of tiny miscreants, and she smiled when their eyes met, the same bright and beguiling smile that had made his stomach ache when he was a boy of seventeen, and gone to Winterfell for the spring holidays. Theon didn’t celebrate Maiden’s Day either, but he’d danced with Sansa at the Fayre regardless. She’d worn lilac and white ribbons in her hair. Later, she been crowned with a riot of spring flowers, as the May Queen, and blushed so prettily but so red Theon thought she might faint with pleasure. Theon could not recall a smile so wide nor so pretty, as when he’d placed that crown on Sansa’s head, and pressed a kiss to her hand. That was his right as her official chaperone to the celebrations that day (Robb had been stuck with miserable Arya, and unlucky Jon had been a-bed with Whooping Cough). 

Theon had wanted to pull Sansa close by that hold on her hand, and kiss her soft pink lips. He would have happily proposed to her in that very moment. But Sansa was a beautiful, noble maiden, descended from a line of greenlander kings, who were poor as Sept mice, with only an old pile and their family name. The Starks couldn’t afford a dowry for Sansa, despite her charms, because Robb needed a decent enough income to attract a wealthy bride. And what could Theon offer her? He hadn’t even finished his schooling, and if he took a greenlander bride, his father would cut him off before his studies were complete. Theon would be thrown out of school and destitute, forced to beg his Uncle Rodrick for an allowance. Sansa had been innocent and sweet and elegant, and not for him. 

Sansa was betrothed the very next year, to the lowly former bastard of Roose Bolton. Ser Ramsay had inherited his father’s vast wealth, when the vicious old miser died of a sudden attack of the heart, without a legitimate heir. There was some blustering from Lord Bolton’s relatives, but the dead man’s will was clear: if he died without a trueborn heir, everything went to the bastard. Ramsay promptly gained a dispensation to carry the Bolton name, and cast about for a wife of suitable breeding, who could prop up his validity within society. Sansa was naturally his choice; extremely beautiful, noble and well-bred, soft and demure, but lacking the wealth he had in abundance.

But Sansa had not smiled at her wedding. Not like she had smiled that early spring afternoon with flowers and ribbons in her fiery red hair. Not even as she smiled at Theon now, with Ramsay’s greedy son clinging to her skirts as the warm fireplace glow cast her hair into a sheet of rippling copper flame. He wondered if she might ever allow him to kiss her hand again; and his lips parted to call out a greeting, but the blundering oaf Gendry stumbled into his back, and Theon cursed him instead. Sansa giggled at the sight, though she hid her laughter politely behind her hand. Theon offered her a beseeching look, rolling his eyes at Gendry’s regular buffoonery, and Sansa only laughted harder. Then Theon was forced to continue with his appointed task. He and Gendry clattered down the stairs together, led by Jeyne, who pointed out where Lady Margaery wanted the garlands festooned. Theon grumbled under his breath, but did as he was bid.

*

**Author's Note:**

> "...there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour."
> 
> ~ Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
> 
> This work is heavily inspired by [The Man Who Invented Christmas (2017)](The_Man_Who_Invented_Christmas_\(film\)) a film about Charles Dicken's writing process, [ North & South (2004)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_%26_South_\(TV_serial\)) a mini-series about class distinction and the hardships of peasant life during the industrial revolution, [Lord Byron's melancholy poems on winter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Byron) and [ Jane Austen's Persuasion (1817)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persuasion_\(novel\)) a novel about young lovers cruelly parted, who gain a second chance at happiness many years later.


End file.
